Loose Threads
by skybound2
Summary: CURRENTLY NOT BEING UPDATED - Spike knows the mechanics behind it, understands that he made a deal with a demon and earned his humanity. But sometimes, sometimes when he wakes up, body bathed in a cold sweat – he wonders just what it was that he earned.
1. Prologue

**Title:** Loose Threads 

**Author: **Skybound

**Spoilers:** Everything from both Buffyverse shows up to an including "Harm's Way".

**Rating:** Eventually R

**Summary:** Time is tenuous, all it takes is the right combination of tugs and pulls to turn the universe on its side. Reality alters, time is skewed, and new worlds are created. When these worlds are forced to come together, everything falls apart.

**Disclaimer: **The characters belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This story was also partially inspired by the book "Q-Squared" by Peter David.

**Author's Note: **Okay folks, I started to post this story a while back when it really wasn't quite ready. Now, here I am again. The story will be posted in smaller snippets this time around I think, but hopefully updates will come more readily since school is out. So please: Read, and Review!  
  
Special thanks to my beta-reader magus!

* * *

**_Prologue_**

Cinnamon.

Such a sweet scent, mixed in with the dust of the air, coating the floorboards, making them slick beneath my feet; I see her moving about the small space, her joints creaking louder then the wood she walks on.

She sways a little, moving to the sound of some musical hallucination only she can hear. I can't help but watch; a soft smile pulls her lips, making the skin hanging loose from her face tighten up almost imperceptibly. Decades seem to melt from her when she is like this. Quiet, happy, far from everything that has etched the harsh lines into her once flawless skin.

She was beautiful. Photographs too numerous to count testify to this fact. But, it's these subtle moments, when I can see the young girl in her emerge; that I can believe it was true.

She had strength.

_Now each stair is an effort._

She had power.

_Now her children fawn on her, making sure she eats._

She had a quick wit.

_Now she dances on the edge of sanity, testing her balance._

She had youth.

_Now…_

Now she has experience.

A lifetime of them flow through her veins. When her eyes meet yours, there is a shine in them that belies her age. They look through you, not at you. Make you feel as if you have yet to really _see _anything. Make you think everything you know is misguided and oversimplified. They tell you…they tell you that you've not even begun.

But no one ever seems to speak _to_ her. She is fragile, she is weak, she is…incapable. She is worthless. Nothing more then a figment that floats among the other ghosts of the attic.

And there are ghosts.

A dusty portrait leans against the far left wall. A sheet half covering the face of someone I have never met; a creepy prop from some grade "B" horror movie. A stack of ancient looking books sit on a shelf, words in languages I don't comprehend sprawled along the spines. A dress dangles from a hook, hanging in anticipation of a dance it will never attend. Or maybe it remembers that dance wistfully, and longs for the days it was the height of fashion. I really couldn't say.

And that's the crux of it really. _I don't know_. I know so little about the world she is from, a world different from the world I know, but are, in fact, one in the same. And I want to know. I _want _to know. I want to ask the questions I am told to avoid. I want to discover what tune she hears in her head when she dances. I want to know everything. And I think, I think _she_ is the one that will tell me…

"Staring for more then three minutes could be classified as stalking. Either in or out, but close the door, you're letting out the chill."

I smile, she will tell me.

The door shuts harshly, bits of rust flaking from the hinges and mixing with the cinnamon and dust to dance in the sunlight pouring through the only window.

"Sorry, sorry. I'm in." Her eyes lock with mine, and she smiles, before placing the wooden object she held in her hand back onto the dresser by her side. A lock of white hair falls loose from her braid, only to be swept back behind her ear by the wrinkled fingers of the same hand.

"The statuesque thing really doesn't work for you, hon. You plan on speaking, working, or just ogling an old lady while she cleans?"

"Tell me."

Her laugh is crystalline; delicate and contagious. "Well that's quite a loaded question isn't it? Tell you, what, exactly?"

"I don't know. Just about you. About the women in that portrait or about that dress, or about the place you grew up. What your favorite movie is? Or color? Why you dance? What's in the chest by the window? What story do those books keep? Tell me about what everyone whispers when they think you can't hear, or why one moment you're lucid and the next certifiable! Everything. Can't you…can't you just tell me everything?"

She appears to contemplate this for a moment; her eyes seem to darken slightly, then soften once more. I begin to wonder if I may have misjudged her. Then I consider that perhaps, it is not the brightest thing to suggest to someone with whom you are about to converse that they might be crazy when there are sharp objects within arm's reach. And certainly it's not the most courteous thing to do. She tells me as much.

"I suppose I should start talking, or else it really isn't much of story is it?"

I smile involuntarily and she moves to her rocker; such a quintessential piece of furniture for an old woman to own. Yet, it sits in the attic collecting dust like any other useless relic. It's a lot like her, actually…

"Well, then have a seat, have a seat. I do have work to do and telling you the story of everything could take a while. Might as well get started."

Those sharp eyes twinkle down at me as I sit, cross-legged, in front of her chair. The sun bounces off the cinnamon dusted air, and she begins her story…

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 1

_**Chapter 1**_

**Thread One: A Painted Picture**

**Sunnydale – 2004**

Sometimes, Buffy hums. She'll come home from work, place a sweet little kiss on his cheek and head off to the kitchen, a bounce in her step and a song in her throat. It should be charming really, the women he loves, so happy and contented that she can barely contain herself. The truth is, he finds it disturbing.

Spike wonders how he got here. He knows the mechanics behind it, understands that he made a deal with a demon and earned his humanity. But sometimes, sometimes when he wakes up, body bathed in a cold sweat – much like this moment – he wonders just what it was that he earned.

-Life?

A lifetime of aching muscles.

A lifetime of sweet caresses in the dark he doesn't deserve.

A lifetime of nightmares; dreams of being bathed in her blood…

He doesn't even know if he should be allowed this second chance. But should, has nothing to do with it.

He never lets on to her though, how hard it is. He doesn't think she even suspects that his world is anything but perfect now. After all, he has her love now doesn't he? He has her trust and her respect. It was all he could ever want, or need.

But, he knew that when you deal with demons, the outcome is never quite what you expect. _Wishing on the bloody Monkey's Paw._

It's not the nightmares themselves that cause him to wake with a start, heartbeat thumping in his neck and clutching the sheets in a fetal embrace. It's that undeniable _need_ he feels when her blood first coasts down his throat as he dreams. It's the fact that when he wakes, his eyes unerringly focus on the pulse point in her neck, watching the blood thrumming away beneath the surface.

It's the fact that the bloodlust remains, even though his demon has long since been exorcised.

_I'm human now; I don't need blood anymore, right?_

_Keep telling yourself that Spikey – ol' boy, maybe one day it'll be true._

Spike growls in aggravation, frustrated by his 'supposed conscience' that's beginning to sound awfully reminiscent of his old demon. Throwing the covers away from him, he is careful not to disturb Buffy - wouldn't do for her to wake now and have her try and comfort him. The erection he inevitably sports after these nightmares would be difficult to explain. He may no longer be a vampire, but that doesn't mean he isn't capable of committing atrocities.

His muscles ache as he reaches for the shower knob, turning the hot water on full blast before moving to the vanity and gazing at his own reflection.

The face that stares back at him is a virtual stranger. He remembers vaguely what he looked like when he returned from Africa nearly two years ago. His face still had the vibrancy his youth afforded him 120 years past. Now, there is evidence of crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. His naturally sandy hair is longer. The ends are merely tipped in yellow, in stark contrast to the darker curls at his roots, and a meager reminder of days ill spent and long past. He wears a 'healthy' tan, sun-darkened flesh gained not through working but through days spent on the beach lying next to Buffy - utterly alien and unnatural to him.

He couldn't help but give into all her wants and urges, joining her in games of volleyball or Marco Polo in the ocean. He put up that white picket fence she always wanted around their house on Revello. But, the final proof of his permanent status as love's bitch is the monthly paycheck he receives from _Evil Incorporated_. Being paid for doing reconnaissance by Angel, bankrolled by his glass tower of lawyers, was the ultimate admission that he would do anything for her. She'd been so grateful to him for taking the job when his once-upon-a-time grandsire had grudgingly offered. She promised him that it would help him to settle into this new role, since none of the other jobs had (or ever would it seemed) worked out. She figured he would be happier, knowing that he was helping her fight the good fight.

He couldn't remember a time when he'd quite been this miserable. Not that he'd ever let her know, that was for sure. He still loved her with all his heart. Longed for her desperately each night. Gave thanks to Lurky every time she whispered love into his ear. Or when she wrapped her arms and legs around him, embracing him totally and forgiving him for all the things he had done in the past. Because, now, he was a new man.

_Funny thing, that, seeing as how I feel so damn old_.

He stared into the mirror for a few moments longer, watching as the image staring back began to fog over and, for just a minute, he thought that the eyes that glared back at him were harder, the hair blonder, and that the mouth was curled upwards in a vicious sneer.

__

__

**Thread Two – Through the Looking Glass **

****

**Sunnydale – May 20, 1998**

When Xander found her, there was nothing left; just a dried out, empty husk. Her once soft skin was cracked and cold as he'd smoothed his hands down her arms, before taking hold of her delicate fingers.

There was so _much_ blood.

Tears fell unbidden from his eyes, forming little puddles of disappointment on her hands; his own slightly calloused fingers rubbed the droplets like moisturizer into her ashen skin.

Daylight flickered away as the burning building in front of him smoldered and crumbled to the ground, and still he didn't move. His eyes traveled over the length of her body, taking in the outfit she had chosen to fight this war in, and inevitably, to die in. They wandered up the length of her leg, past the swell of her breast, before lingering on her neck…

The bones were twisted at an unnatural angle, causing her lifeless eyes to stare down towards the ground that she lay on. The wound on her neck was vile to look at, the flesh torn and splintered. It appeared more like some rabid animal had gotten its jaws in her, rather then the bite of a vampire that had finally gotten one good day.

The pool of blood had congealed around her head in an obscene replication of a halo, and a bitter laugh died in Xander's throat at the thought of the Angel who was responsible.

The sound of the firetrucks in the distance broke Xander from his silent eulogy, and he knew he needed to move quickly; there was no time for him to take her body away from this place. The wound on her neck meant she needed a more permanent form of disposition, and the thought of severing her head from her once powerful body made bile rise in his throat. The heat of the nearby flames made the decision for him.

He took one last moment to memorize her features; his red-rimmed eyes closed as he placed a soft kiss on her brow before he lifted her from her resting place and carried her toward the building. He maneuvered around the falling embers; his body barely registered the heat, absorbed as it was in the icy creature he carried in his arms.

A moment later he was out of the building and in the shadows offered by the nearby trees. He watched the building burn for several more moments, before he lowered his head and breathed out a few words of remembrance. He only wished he had told her how he felt when the chance was still his, now she belonged to the ashes.

"Goodbye, Buffy."

The firemen arrived what seemed ages later. He wondered what inane story they would concoct to explain the burnt bodies they found inside. They'd find the shell casing for certain, and he thought they would perhaps weave their tale around the stolen bazooka and blame the whole thing on drug use amongst teenagers. The people of Sunnydale would be willing to believe anything that was spoon fed to them, as long as it wasn't the truth.

The thought sobered him, and reluctantly Xander headed back to Willow and the others waiting at the hospital. Leaving the funeral pyre, and his beloved slayer, behind.

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 2

**_Chapter 2_**  
  
**Thread Three: What You Wished For  
**  
**Los Angeles – 2004**  
  
The acrid smell of burning flesh singed the air, thick smoke wafting up into the night and tangling with floating bits of dust, painting a pattern of death in the sky; a memoriam to those who were meant to be immortal.  
  
Gasping, for air he couldn't use, the small dark haired vampire stumbled back, falling to his knees and clutching his sliced throat in a vain attempt to hold back the deluge of blood. Having been freshly turned, he never received the training that might have given him a fighting chance. In a brief moment of clarity, he was lucidly aware of his place in this battle - an answer to the dire need for more bodies in this fight. He looked on at his attacker with an animal fear that blanketed the pain as he sputtered wet-gibberish, futile pleas, and half-handed threats.  
  
His hunter twitched, a hardwood stake darting between his second and third rib with the grace of a mongoose strike. The hunter paused momentarily, breathing deep the odor of fear and turmoil as if in a religious ecstasy. Dust and death surrounded him, while his work lay before him. The hunter turned, with a bestial snarl and a lustful glare, fangs descended, to face his next conquest.  
  
The vampire grinned mirthlessly, all teeth and mounting fury, as he launched himself into the fray. His eyes flashed, inhuman and violent as all around him the fight raged. Screams of agony poured forth like blood, wine...mother's milk. In alien and human tongues alike. Victory was inevitable, in the air like blood on the tide. He knew this as surely as he knew his own sire's scent. When the war was over, only one army could be left. His destiny was nearly fulfilled, standing at the forefront of a bold new world by the master's side. _They will sing your praises then, Xander...  
_  
With a thick, wet crunch, he tore an appendage from a horned demon and used it to bash the skull of an enemy on his right.  
  
The sounds of gurgling death rattles caressed his ears. The newly one- armed, horned demon behind him clutched at its useless and leaking stump before being savaged by an opportunistic minion. Xander dropped his makeshift weapon in favor of a new opponent's throat. Twisting his victim's limp body around, he sunk his teeth into the dead flesh, pulling on the thick blood. When he had had his fill he twisted his battlefield snack's head neatly from its twitching husk, dust painting his boots.  
  
Xander wiped at the blood on his mouth, savoring the moment. _Oh, how they sing for me..._  
  
He scanned the crowd, looking for his next opening - knowing that it wouldn't be much longer now. The scent of the sun was on the horizon, and the lesser demons wouldn't be able to hold out. Brutally and suddenly, all of the momentum was knocked from his body. A heartbeat of time passed before his mind registered the dainty fist jutting from his chest. His mouth opened and closed in a sad, soundless impersonation of a fish He stared in fading awe at the gaping wound and watched, time passing thick with pain and shock, as the slender arm withdrew from his body, carrying his unbeating heart in its delicate palm.  
  
The face of his killer drifted into view; there was no pain even as his knees burst on contact with the ground. He focused on those soft lips, lips he had spent countless hours memorizing. The malevolent, glistening ruby smile, luring over him beneath sparkling green eyes, filled his withering body with love and worship. _Beautiful.  
_  
She slowly crushed his heart in her hands. A laugh escaped him then, followed by sanity as he noted the irony of the situation. She dropped the useless organ to the ground and slid into her demon visage. Her golden eyes shone with raw, vindictive pleasure as she ripped the head from Xander's unfeeling corpse.  
  
A pout, a mockery of sympathy, touched her lips as she watched her dark prince's remains mix with the mud and demon offal at her feet. Kicking at the reddened earth she pined for him; "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," before she turned abruptly on her heels, head and spirits held high. She couldn't afford to wait any longer, mourning his unfortunate, but necessary passing.  
  
Vampire royalty, she flowed through the hordes fighting and dying around her, every bit the successor to Xander the General. A few unwise, ill-fated demon minions attacked her on her way to her outpost and thus provided her with twin spine trophies.  
  
She sighed heavily, the lack of challenge just boring the joy right out of her. A sudden pang of guilt for waylaying her only competition sobered her, placed things in a crystalline perspective. Her graceful stride widened as she moved in towards the heart of the battle, climbing up and over the fallen bodies of both demons and humans, and bathed her porcelain skin in the dust of countless fallen comrades.  
  
At the edge of the battlefield, a mountain of corpses serving as his throne, she caught sight of her sire eagerly awaiting her return.  
  
She greeted him with a nod and moved to his side, a clawed hand reached out to stroke her head affectionately before it settled on her shoulder.  
  
Time passed, imperceptible, as the two watched with satisfaction the fight around them. Slowly the purple sky faded to a light gray. Screams and turmoil grew more frenetic as fingers of amber sliced through the clouds of dust and gore, tempting those on the field with the approach of dawn. Before the sun crested on the horizon however, the victors of this war became clear. The members of their clan crowed jubilantly, even while fleeing towards shelter. The multitude of unlucky survivors from all sides gathered for entertainment, spoils of war. Their terrified and anguished howls imprinted themselves on the fading night air.  
  
The Master breathed heavily from the blood-soaked wind, and wrapped an arm around the waist of his redheaded Childe. "Do you see this? Do you see all that a strong will can accomplish?"  
  
He gestured out over the city, now under his full and uncontested reign. Pleased with himself as well as his Childer. No sire could ask for more appreciative and attentive companions. He closed his fist, clenched it tightly to drive his claws into his own marbled palm, and spilled his own blood onto the ground, consecrating it as his own.  
  
His Childe leaned up, brushing a kiss across his cheek. Before she nodded her head in agreement. "Yes, father, I do see."  
  
With lightening celerity and titanic effort, her stake plunged into his heart through his back. His jaw worked slowly, forming soundless words. He then smiled, before his bones clustered around her feet.  
  
A self-satisfied smile creased her porcelain face, as Willow glared down upon the ripe fruit that was the city of Los Angeles.

**TBC**


	4. Interlude

**Disclaimer:** Some dialogue is borrowed from "Becoming pt. 2"

**_Interlude 2_**

****

**Thread Two**

**Sunnydale – May 19, 1998**

Angelus snarled, frustrated, at the pigheadedness of the Watcher, unable to wrestle his prize from him. "You know what, old man? I'm going to kill you either way…don't you want your death to _mean _something?" Angelus' sneering laughter reverberated around the chamber, as Spike watched on with feigned amusement.

Angelus had executed a litany of torture: a piece of metal seared to perfection over an open flame painted pretty patterns along the watcher's ribs, fingernails sharpened to points pried flesh slowly from the inside of Giles' thigh, softly whispered words told and re-told all the delicious things Angelus had done, and would do to the pert little body of the Slayer.

Spike noted that Angelus seemed to have an endless supply of methods for causing pain stored up inside his somewhat splintered mind. The blonde didn't doubt that the century plus of being caged up behind the soul was the cause of his grandsire's sudden bout of creativity. Although, Angelus never did break out the chainsaw Spike remembered him having spoken so fondly of earlier.

After several hours of slowly filleting the man, Angelus' patience was at an end. A crowbar clattered to the floor by the broken remnants of the watcher's toes as his hunger and annoyance began to get the better of him. With one last spiteful glance, Angelus abandoned his only source of information for the time being, leaving Giles' alone with the immobile Spike. A patronizing pat on the back and a snide "Watch him," followed by his grandsire's laughter at the pun forestalling Giles becoming victory refreshment anytime soon.

It would have been obvious to anyone that the man was nearly beaten. Drying blood began caking along his flesh. An absurd rendition of Sissy Spacek's _Carrie,_ only this blood was very much his own. He might have laughed at the comparison if his heart thundering against his ribs wasn't enough to make him want to weep. He thought it really was a pity he never spent more time studying telekinesis; it could have come in real handy at the moment. As it was, Giles watched helplessly as Spike rolled his wheelchair along side of him, the vampire catching his gaze and considering him for a few moments. His expression smug, with a silent promise of torments yet to come.

Spike leaned forward, pressing death-chilled lips against the lobe of Giles' right ear, ignoring the man's moan of protest, and spoke. His voice strangely soft and disarming; "You might not realize this right now, but I'm about to do you a favor."

Giles, oddly amused, made slow, painful eye contact with Spike once more. The creaks his body made as he twisted his neck around betrayed the air of stoicism he tried to where as he spoke. "I sincerely doubt that."

Spike chuckled deep, the sound resonating about the chamber. "I like you. You got spunk, you know that?"

Giles merely stared back, blood trailing in tiny rivulets from his lips to his chest.

"Simple really. I'd wager that you really **do** know how Angelus can awaken Acathala. Bloody ponce is just too thickheaded to understand that torture isn't going to get him the answers he wants."

Spike raised a scarred eyebrow, gauging the Watcher's reaction, but was unsurprised when he received none. Slowly, he continued, "Thing of it is, eventually, he'll look into other ways. Other methods of…", Spike paused his diatribe, beating back his own malicious amusement, "coaxing the information out of you."

"Never." Blood spattered onto Spike's face as Giles spit the word at him. Spike calmly wiped it away, licking it off of the back of his hand tauntingly; Giles merely returned to his mask of quiet suffering.

"Oh, believe me old boy, he'll figure it out. And when he does - you, me, that pretty little slayer of yours, all of it, will be nothing but a memory."

Giles searched Spikes eyes for a moment, and bit bask a slight gasp, finding only truth there, "Why do you care?"

"We like to talk big. Vampires do. 'I'm going to destroy the world.'" His voice took on a mocking tone as he imitated what Giles had to assume was Angelus. "That's just tough guy talk. Strutting around with your friends over a pint of blood. The truth is, I like this world. You've got... dog racing, Manchester United. And you've got people. Billions of people walking around like Happy Meals with legs. It's all right here." Spike paused for a moment, his head cocked to one side, the look on his face almost nostalgic, before continuing: "But then someone comes along with a vision. With a real... passion for destruction. Angelus could pull it off. Goodbye, Piccadilly. Farewell, Leicester bloody Square. You know what I'm saying?"

Giles swallowed back a bit a blood, he hated to admit it, but Spike was right. Angelus _could_ pull this off. "I'm listening."

Spike's lips turned upwards in a smug smile once more, "That's good. So here's where things get sticky, the key to unleashing hell on Earth," he tapped Giles non-too lightly on the head, "It's all up here, inn' it? So, time now for you to do your watcher-ly duty, and save the bleedin' world."

Giles' eyes narrowed, as he looked at Spike and breathed out harshly, each word causing obvious pain, "and just how do I that?"

Spike cocked his head to the side, his expression simple, the answer seemingly so obvious to him.

"You die."

With a growl, Spike latched on to Giles' throat.

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 3

**_Chapter 3_**

**Thread Four: The World We Know**

**Los Angeles – 2004**

A growl rumbled up from Angel's throat, "Why won't you _die_, already?" Low and guttural, frustrated and slightly embarrassed over how much he still enjoyed this. He launched his body into his opponent, claws digging out shanks of flesh from the demon's hide, then pounded his opponent relentlessly to the ground. A light, green ichor poured from its wounds as the creature died, twitching.

Crouched in fear by a filthy brick wall near the club, a dark haired couple clung to each other. _Just a mugging, that's all, just a mugging gone awry…a big mugger, with scales and, and a tail and, my Lord, are those pincers? Nope, nope, just a mugging, a mugging._

In its last death throe the demon pulled itself upright and launched towards the traumatized meat sacks in the corner. Just as the dark haired couples' eyes began to glaze over, a dumpster slammed into the body of the demon, splattering its blood and funk out of every new opening on its body. Angel blanched as the ichor seeped into his designer shoes – a sober reminder why this job wasn't always a pleasure. __

He glanced up, wiping some of the ooze that had splashed across his face from his lips. A subtle tang breached his taste buds, where his tongue had darted out to lick the remnants away; _Strange, kind of peppermint-y…_

He turned to the frightened observers, preparing to explain what they had just seen in a single-serving, easily digestible way. He always thought this was the really hard part - taking in the appreciative 'thank you good sir' modestly while dodging truthful answers to questions about what they had just seen.

He sighed as they pre-empted his lame attempt and skittered off like rats into the night. "Your welcome," he said to the backs of the figures fading softly into the night.

Angel shook his head – a predator cleaning his mange – flinging slime across the wall before he took out his cell phone. He stared down at his now ruined shoes as he waited for someone to answer the line. _Champion of the people and I can't even save my favorite leather loafers…_

"Need a clean up crew behind Jaber's nightclub…Yes, I know he's a client of ours…Well, I don't think that's important right now do you?...He was trying to eat a couple…No, I don't know if they provoked him! Just get someone here and soon."

He picked at some of the dried slime on his overcoat, "I have a feeling this stuff stains."

With a heavy heart, he glanced down the alleyway once more, wondering how much more he'd be able to take of this life before it finally got the better of him, and he gave into the base urges always pressing on the edge of his consciousness. He buried the doubts under a stack of concerns, now done with practiced ease, before heading back home for a long shower.

----/----

The stale air of the hospital room did little to make Angel feel at home. All he could smell when he came here was death covertly disguised in bleach and antiseptics. It took a Herculean amount of effort to keep from dry heaving every time he came. Sometimes, the stench of death and blood was so strong he had trouble keeping his demon at bay; those were the days he usually had to cut his visits short. Wouldn't do for her first sight of him when she woke up to be of him snacking on some nurse's aid that happened by during a moment of weakness.

Angel brushed a strand of shoulder length brown hair away from her peaceful face. Watching her as she slept, noting once again that her eyes were motionless behind her closed lids. He found that detail to be the most unnerving during his visits. She'd been so alive before. Now he had a hard time believing this could really be his Cordy. Quick witted, brutally honest, iron barbed banter at the ready, and now…now the only evidence of life still in her body was the subtle rise and fall of her chest in time to the 'beep, beep, beep' of the machines attached to her thinning limbs.

"Killed, something, last night." His eyebrows bunched while he thought as his left hand idly stroked the skin of her cheek. "Not really sure what it was," He shrugged, "well other than a client. It was…slimy and had really bad teeth. Saved this guy and his wife. Nice looking couple, don't know what they were doing out behind a demon bar at 3 am on a Wednesday…"

He sighed heavily and paused in his story. _Why do I do this to? - force her, as well as me, to listen to these ridiculous and useless tales._ He knew this was a flawed habit. Knew that he could not stand between rage and hopeless sobbing forever. A fragile hope was all that kept him tied to this ruin. He knew that if he let the damn break, he would become as lost as she was.

"I don't know if I'm doing the right thing here. Got this new 'Zero Tolerance' policy in effect. It's a good plan, mostly, but the carpet cleaning bills are starting to add up."

He lowered his head for a moment, and then slid his hand down her side to take hold of hers. The warmth from her convalescent flesh offered a slight bit of comfort, but failed to dispel the wrenching in him that longed for the day that she squeezed his hand in return. The silence became pervasive and deafening.

"Miss you, Cordy." He brushed a light kiss to her forehead before placing her hand softly back by her side and leaving the room, knowing he couldn't handle much more.

"See you tomorrow."

Angel carefully shut the heavy door behind him. His brain told him it was a ridiculous gesture, a childish response – pretending she was merely sleeping and not in a coma..

"Angel! Just the tragic hero I was looking for." Eve's face lit up as she approached him, wearing her notoriously familiar 'I want something' face. He grimaced; vivid memories of that same look only a few sweaty inches away before he threw her onto the couch during Lorne's mind-control fiasco.

"What do you want, Eve." There was no effort made to mask his irritability or lack of concern for her interests. But, to her credit, she didn't rise to the bait.

"Oh, poor baby. No change in her condition I'm assuming?" She pursed her lips before shrugging. "Although that's probably a good thing, seeing as how a change in her status would probably mean she was dea-"

Angel's hand snapped forward, to snag Eve by the wrist and yank her roughly toward him. With a growl in his throat, and closer to his own demon than he would care to admit, he warned; "You don't talk about her. You don't look at her, you don't even _think _about her! Do you understand?" He tightened his grip, leaving a series of fingered shaped bruises on her arm as a reminder. "Do. You. Understand?"

"Sure thing, Angel." The tenor of her voice never wavered, but the iridescent glow of the overhead lights betrayed her composure, her skin had taken on a deathly pallor in the wake of his sudden ferocity. That, and she was rank with fear.

Disgustedly he hurled her away from him, causing her to stumble a bit before she spoke again. She avoided rubbing her wrist where the bruise was beginning to form and tried to ignore the tell tale twitch of his nose as he caught the scent of her blood rushing to the surface. Not wise to let an enemy in on your weaknesses, after all. Eve might have been many things, but stupid was not one of them.

"The senior partners want you to do something for them."

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 4

**_Chapter 4 – Black Fog_ **

**Thread Two: Through the Looking Glass **

**Los Angeles - 2004 **

Bright lights and dimwits, that was Los Angeles' in a nutshell as far as Spike was concerned. The night was as clear as one could hope for in a city with ills running so deep, they could wrap around you in a tangible cloth of stench. London Fog reborn in West Hollywood. Made Spike glad he didn't need air to live, otherwise death might seem like a sweeter alternative.

He watched lazily as Drusilla skipped ahead, delicate fingers ghosting over glass as she moved from store to store, taking in the wares. A small smile bloomed on his lips as he watched his love, looking young and untainted, a porcelain doll that had yet to break.

It only went prove how deceiving one's eyes could be.

Spike's gaze was drawn momentarily to the storefront window on his right, eyeing a mannequin in a pink vinyl getup appreciatively. He was about to suggest the item for his princess, when the same breath he was happy for not needing caught in his throat. Gazing back at him in a similarly shocked manner was…himself. _What the bloody…_

The ground seemed to fall out from beneath as he watched his reflection in awed silence. His princess danced a whirly gig about him; cool breath on his neck, sharp nails scratching up the length of his arm, leaving little red welts along his collarbone.

The air thickened about Spike wrapping him tightly in its dark embrace as, slowly, the image twisted, and changed, melding with his own in a cheap photographers trick. Eternal seconds clicked on by as the newly merged image before him made his knees quake, as a sudden and irrational fear suffused him. The world around him faded to black.

Brilliant blue eyes gazed into his own, out of a face that unmistakably belonged to him, only almost unrecognizable due to one dramatic difference. The eyes staring back at him were filled with horror. An emotion he knew to the depths of his bones, and had only before ever seen in the eyes of his victims. _I think I'm gonna be sick…_

He felt his stomach lurking as a sudden wave of nausea overtook him, before his mind was swept back to reality, and the feeling was a quickly washed away. The image faded as the voice of his black beauty whispered in his ear; "Such a merry feast we shall have." She took the lobe of his ear in between her lips then, and bit down, _hard_. A trickle of blood began to flow down his neck, but was swept away by the velvet of her tongue.

Somehow, Spike managed to find his voice again, "When would that be, Dru?"

Her dancing twirls sped up, hair rushing around her like a black fog, "When all the pretty stars line up and take their bows."

She craned her head to the heavens, hands running up and through her dark locks before she reached out and swooped Spike up into the dance; laughing merrily before resting her head on his shoulder, "My William is coming home."

"Pet?" His query was silenced by her soft lips pressing against his own, their arms wound tightly around each other as what was chaste become laden with passion, pulling him down deeper into her madness. The outside world drowned out in her depths and brought low by that intoxicating kiss.

Drusilla broke the spell suddenly from him then, admiring the pretty kiss swollen lips of he boy. She drug her thumb across his mouth before lifting her eyes and met Spike's heavy lidded and slightly irritated gaze, to ponder; "I wonder what he would like for his birthday?"

Spike drew back slightly from her then, the image already fading from his mind, a silly dream that had no reason to be recalled, and cocked his head in question.

Her eyes blackened and she began to sway to a non-existent breeze. Without further warning or any explanation she grasped his hand tightly in her own, and took off at a tear down the street, "We must go now, or Daddy shall be cross."

----/----

With a loud 'hrumph' Spike plopped down on the plush maroon velvet sofa, running his hand through his hair, freeing the curls from their gelled prison, as he watched Drusilla greet Angelus with a kiss. _Ponce._

He leaned his head onto the back of the seat, losing focus as he traced each line of the ceiling - glided along their curves and twists. Strangely reminiscent of a cloud filled sky.

He suddenly missed the sun.

The hypnotic exercise caused Spike's mind to drift while the world ebbed away, becoming murky and insignificant. The voices of his family seemed distant and liquid, and he had the vague impression of being held beneath water, the still surface of a lake. His limbs flailing uselessly for purchase, but failing utterly. The thought of drowning forced a shudder to amble up his spine, and caused him to focus on the always-entertaining members of his little family troupe.

"Hey! Get your crazy lips off of _my_ man!" The shrill cheerleader's voice ripped through Spike causing him to lift his heavy head for a moment – watching Cordelia furiously pull Drusilla away from their sire. Angelus laughed a light, sardonically benevolent laugh, and appeared to be distantly appreciating his dark princess' sulking after being torn from her 'Daddy'.

Cordy's yelling escalated, and soon she was virulently and bodily threatening both Dru and Angelus. Spike, irritated at this inane and all-too-common interruption from a perfectly meandering reverie, threw his hands up and snorted at his grandsire's half-handed attempts to calm Cordelia's impetuous and malicious tendencies. Eventually Angelus succeeded in abating her childish fury, and was drug into the couples' suite to make amends for his offense.

Spike's eyelids, still heavy with apathy, closed to the soft cooing of his love while she brushed Miss Edith's hair and set up a tea party for herself and her beloved doll.

He spared his pet a glance, simply assuring himself that Dru was, indeed, as contented as she sounded, and smiled lightly when he saw Red joining her for the party.

With perfect sincerity and concern, Drusilla questioned; "Where did your pretty little boy, go?" She stroked the redhead's ashen face and poured warm, imaginary tea into their cups.

Willow wiped the corners of her mouth, and smiled in skull splitting amusement as she answerd her sire: "Got hungry, Mommy."

Drusilla shook a long finger at Willow, "tsk, tsk. Naughty girl. Playmates are so much nicer when they can fight back."

Willow's full bottom lip jutted out, "I know. All my puppies break so easily though."

"Then we shall have to get you a stronger one."

The crystalline laughs of the two girls filled the room, granting a brief reprieve from the animal grunts coming from the pair in the bedroom and allowed the fog to overtake Spike once more as he drifted into sleep with a smile.

Something a few dreams were sure to wipe clean.


End file.
